


The Ambitions Are

by jendavis



Category: Leverage
Genre: M/M, leverage500
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the leverage500 community on livejournal, for prompt "begin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ambitions Are

Focus. The countdown's not important. What comes next is everything. _Listen_.

 _..three...two..._

"Alright, man, _now._ "

Ignore your screaming ankle, just. _Go_. Around the corner, down to the second door, swipe the card and you're through, swing hard on the frame, avoid the pressure pad on the other side, dodge left under the cameras.

Listen as he talks you through, voice tripping faster now, concern bleeding through, sounding like something you've been thinking about too much, lately. Shake yourself. Only thing he's thinking about are the ex-SEALs following too close behind. You should be, too.

"End of the hall, you're good." You want it to be a promise; it's not. It could be.

Get it right the first time. Punch combination 4839375, keep breathing, scan for movement. Nothing. _Move_.

Try not to cringe when you look into the retinal scanner's empty eye.

Access denied.

Breathe. Don't let them hear your nerves. He's trying something else now, this time he's got it, this time for real. Try to trust. He needs you to believe.

Raise your face again. Don't blink.

The door clicks open. You're through. Shove the drive in, execute, don't look over your shoulder. Remove it, get out, get gone.

"Done."

Back around the corner to the stairs, listen to the klaxons start to wail. Picture cups of coffee spilling over keyboards in the offices below, the irritated shift of some civilian's jacket rasping against her clothes as she grabs her purse.

"You alright?"

He's doing it again, he's the only one asking, but don't ask aloud for confirmation, just say yeah. Turn from the camera, hide him from your bruises.

Get down to third, hold back when he tells you to, there's footsteps rushing on the stairs below. Creep down to second when he gives the okay. You don't have to fight, he's _got_ this.

"You're clear. Get across. Elevator's locked down for another ninety seconds."

Dead run, find the doors already open onto nothing. Remember to thank him later, maybe, once you've worked out the words. Forget Chapman's broken arm in Belarus. Find your footing. Ladder's to the right, nothing below you but shaft.

The world's bearing down, there's no need to look up for proof. Slide the last ten feet, land on your good leg. You're too old for this shit. Maintenance hatch is behind you, get it open just in time.

Your name sounds harsh when then the panic's his.

Rush of new dirty air, three low steps and you're out on cement, finding your feet. He's right behind you; the hug's for morale. Wonder if you're falling in love. Follow the pull, land in the van, door slamming shut.

"I've got him," he's telling everyone. Tend to agree when his shoulders slump in relief. "He's okay."

Catch him looking at you through the rearview as he drives. Look back. Watch his hands on the wheel. Get caught.

"Damn it, Hardison," when he skips ahead to smiling first, warm, like he _knows_.

Grin back. Fall more.


End file.
